


BEYOND THE HORIZON ★

by elfroot



Series: Of Pride and Redemption [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Dirty Talk, Fluff and Smut, Frottage, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 13:01:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3411560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfroot/pseuds/elfroot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Dorian have fully embraced what they mean to each other, although there seem to be quite a lot left to... discover. It's finally remedied after weeks of sweet exploration, tangled in the comfort of Cullen's bedchamber. In which Cullen offers more than <i>Maker's breath</i> and causes Dorian's skin to burn instead.</p><p>Candles flicker slow and quiet on the bedside table, the night moonless beyond the open window. The air is cool and the breeze soothing, just crisp enough to coax closer proximity. They've fallen asleep together, flimsy fabric hanging loose off their hips, the only barrier between them. Cullen's wrapped around his slightly smaller form, Dorian's hair tucked pell-mell under his chin. He's shivering. <i>Wilting in the cold like a hot-house orchid.</i> Cullen remembers that particular missive and his hold tightens around him, his smile half-awake.</p>
            </blockquote>





	BEYOND THE HORIZON ★

**Author's Note:**

> rusty smut right ahead! and sappy fluff because _what did you expect_? it's me, after all. now, there's a few latin phrases in there and i know it's not tevene, and perhaps not even accurate in latin, but it's the closest i could find to dorian's native language. a big thank you to chacah for reading this and... dying, apparently, which i really don't approve of, please stay alive  <3 and thank you all for being here and reading and commenting always, we're in this hell together and i'm more than happy to contribute. enjoy!

Candles flicker slow and quiet on the bedside table, the night moonless beyond the open window. The air is cool and the breeze soothing, just crisp enough to coax closer proximity. They've fallen asleep together, flimsy fabric hanging loose off their hips, the only barrier between them. Cullen's wrapped around his slightly smaller form, Dorian's hair tucked pell-mell under his chin. He's shivering. _Wilting in the cold like a hot-house orchid_. Cullen remembers that particular missive and his hold tightens around him, his smile half-awake.

They've come a long way. _He's_ come a long way. Of all the possible outcomes he's envisioned, falling for mage—let alone _pursuing one_ —has never been one of them. He's never imagined crossing lines once forbidden, taking a stand for the causes he believes in and finally breaking free of his chains. How could he have? He'd never trusted himself before, until recently. It doesn't come easy, this newfound confidence, but it's stronger here, his lover by his side, because Dorian of all people is well aware of his struggles. He knows of temptation. He knows of doubts, of self-induced fears. He knows of false expectation.

Of pride and redemption.

They've taken a liking to sleeping together. Cullen's quarters offer the sort of peace Dorian craves, his own chamber filled with unwelcome cacophony. _These blasted birds_. They've impaired his beauty sleep, or so he likes to claim; Cullen's rather fond of his excuse, so long as he keeps coming back.

He does. Late in the evening, after long debriefing sessions they endure through stolen glances and knowing smiles; or early, in the middle of a Wicked Grace game cut short—they've expertly learned how to evade them. They meet again, here, together, Cullen's head in his lap and Dorian's fingers in his hair, teaching him the wonders of Tevene. _Amatus_ , he calls him, and he knows now, the meaning behind it. But it's not all they do, and it's not all he says. Sometimes he doesn't say anything at all, and neither does Cullen, wrapped around each other as the horizon turns crimson. They've watched the sun set countless times, a bottle of Agregio Pavali by their side to match its warmth. They've played chess on his bed and they've read books on the floor, and they've kissed, _everywhere_ , Dorian's scent an integral part of his chamber.

It's what they did the night before. They _kissed_. Over there, against the door, barely shut in the wake of Cullen's need. They've touched and moaned against the wall, _too much, not enough_ , and Dorian's groans of appreciation still ring in his ears. It's what he dreamed of, and it's what he dreams of still, pressed flush against his back, his clothed erection trapped between the taut muscles of his abdomen and the sweet curve of Dorian's arse.

It's how they sleep, torsos bare and loins covered, and if it seems chaste, it's a far cry from the first night they've spent together. Dorian had worn a blighted _scarf_ then, fully robed and fully spiteful towards the cold weather, and Cullen had merely laughed, content to just lie beside him with his hand sporadically brushing his. It's been close to a month now, and clothes have progressively disappeared, until underclothes remained as their sole protection. This is... nice. Warm. _Thin_. Barely there. But Cullen's never... touched him there below the waist, not yet—not with his hands. He's felt him, of course, through robes and trousers, _through this_ , soft and hardened, delightfully squeezed. They've never spoken of rules—he doesn't think there are any, but there's an unwritten agreement between them, quiet and sweet and indulgent, and it's in Dorian's eyes every time he gazes into them. _Slow. Patient._ He can work with slow—it's his pace, definitely. He can work with anything where Dorian's concerned, but the more he tastes and the more he wants, _needs_ , and if their latest adventures are any indication, he's more than ready to dive deeper.

He nearly came the night before. _Like a teenage boy_. With Dorian in his lap and his tongue in his mouth, the thick bulge constantly rubbing up his own quickly made a mess of his senses, and he had no choice but to fake a cramp in his legs to save face, _to stop_ before he spilled himself. Dorian's lopsided smile prompted his cheeks to flush, and Cullen knows, deep down, that he never believed a word of his poor excuse.

It's on that memory that he blinks his eyes open, a drowsy chuckle grating his throat. He's not fully awake, but he's getting there, pulling Dorian even closer, firm, tender, his cock nestled between the cheeks of his arse. He sighs in his hair, his breath following the lazy rhythm his hips have adopted, and Dorian moves, moans, echoes of the night before. _Cullen_ , he hears, uneven, breathy, and he nods stupidly, humming, until fingers close tight around his wrist and he _freezes_ , unable to decide whether he's invited to continue or to back away.

 _Maker's breath_. He's awake, fully, and he wants to apologize. Can he do this? Has he... taken advantage? Overstepped boundaries? Are there laws that can't be breached between a man and another? He wants to say something, _to ask_ , but he fumbles with his mouth and words tumble over his tongue and he jerks away, rolling onto his side—

"Cullen."

He stills mid-roll, looking over his shoulder to catch of glimpse of disheveled hair and sleepy eyes, but there's a smile along the curl of his mustache and Cullen's beat jumps in his throat.

_He's outrageously beautiful._

"And just _where_ do you think you're going?" he purrs, and Cullen babbles as Dorian inches closer, the palm of his hand warm over his chest. "I quite enjoyed what you were doing... _Amatus_."

Oh. Well, that's... _oh_. _Ohhh_ , because Dorian pushes him back where he belongs, graceful as ever as he proceeds to straddle him. _Ohhh_ , because he leans in and his tongue traces the outline of his bottom lip, languid—Cullen abstractly wonders how he smells and tastes so good in the morning. _Ohhh_ , because his mouth is wet and eager, hanging open on notes of desire he doesn't bother muffling. _Ohhh_ , because his hands map the contours of his muscles with ravenous touches, and Cullen bucks up unintentionally, swallowing his groan. _Ohhh_ , because they move further down now, and Dorian's body follows suit, trailing kisses across his chest, lips and tongue and teeth and Cullen reaches out for him, empty air as Dorian evades him.

 _Ohhh_ , because his hand closes around his cock and he bolts up with a sharp cry that never quite reaches his lips, Dorian's palm gently pushing him back down.

"Let me," he merely whispers, his mouth hot over his, and Cullen nods, lazy, _letting him_ , arms at his sides and fingers clutching the sheet.

This is it. _This is it_ , and he can't bring himself to look. Dorian's perched over his legs, kissing the crook of his hips as his hand squeezes and grips, and he _worries_ , vulnerable underneath him, thinking things he's never thought before... like the length of his own cock. Its girth. Its overall size and appearance, and whether he should be considered well-endowed. He thinks  he is— _he doesn't want to think_ , not this, not _anything_ , but he wonders if he's what Dorian's expected and he nearly asks, like a fool. He doesn't. He bites his tongue and he pulls his arm over his face instead and _Maker's breath_ , since when has he been so pathetically bashful?

 _Since the day he was born_.

He winces, cringes at himself and—oh _yes_ , oh Maker _yes_ , _ahhhhh_ and _ohhhh_ and fingers fanned in barely controlled bliss and he _knows_ he's exactly what Dorian's expected.

"Dorian," he croaks, and he trembles and he lifts his head and he _looks_ , and he shouldn't have.

A strangled noise catches in the back of his throat as Dorian's tongue bathes the crown of his cock, eyes closed, face darker and so unbelievably _elated_ he could come right there, right now. Thick lashes brush over high, perfect cheeks and Cullen's own lids feel heavier as he watches, mesmerized, the tip of his cock disappear, sucked in Dorian's languorous mouth. He's so incredibly _hard_. He can't help it. He responds, eagerly so, thrusting up in unison with Dorian's rhythmic, guttural chant, and he squirms, seeking more, gripping the bedsheet for dear life. His vision blurs. Dorian's moving, above, against, ridding of their underclothes and never leaving him, sucking, nibbling, and when he comes back, Cullen feels his shaft, swollen and large and thick against his leg, and Dorian writhes against him and he needs _to breathe_.

"Maker's b-breath," he exhales, loud, as if what little air he had left in his lungs simply bolted out, and Dorian undulates above him, languid, graceful, chuckling a throaty laugh.

"Again with the breath?" he teases, and his tongue darts out, sinful, laving and licking and swirling, and Cullen chokes on a groan, shaking with need, keeping himself from shoving his cock down Dorian's throat. "It's a fixation of yours. Perhaps you should... fix it."

He laughs, gruff and raw, and it breaks into a long whimper as he reaches out, a handful of silky black hair around his fingers. Dorian leans into his touch, and Cullen needs more, _him_ , ears full of maddening suction noises.

He loses sight of his control.

In one swift movement he sits up, dragging Dorian along and pulling him in, _tight_ , until chests collide and cocks slide up one another, causing them both to sigh. He's straddling him, riding him, cupping his face and crushing his mouth with his own, and Cullen's hand snakes inbetween them, finding what he's been eager to touch.

Thick. Leaking. _Hard_. Dorian's cock fits his palm like his smaller body fits against his broader shape, and Cullen leans in to taste his throat as his head sweeps backward. There's a hum causing his skin to tremble, and he follows its trail, lips parted over his flesh, from the crook of his neck to the firm line of his jaw, ultimately  finding his tongue again.

" _Amatus_ ," he whispers, _whimpers_ , into his mouth, and Cullen jerks him off, merciless, stroking his cock in such a way that it constantly rubs against his own, heads pressed, brushing, kneading. The candles' flames have grown wild, dancing against the wall in the wake of their movements, and something changes in Dorian's cadence, slower, and Cullen can tell from the way he grits his teeth that it's taking all his might to slow down.

"I'm of a mind to bring you much closer to me," he breathes, forehead pressed to his, and Cullen nuzzles his cheek lazily, whispering _how_ , because they're so impossibly close already. "You, above me. _Fac delicias mecum_."

Fac del— Cullen stills, mid-kiss, craning his neck back to fix a puzzled look upon him. _Fac delicias mecum_. He's nowhere near fluent in Tevene, but he knows enough to guess what it means. He shakes his head, brows slightly creased, and he's fumbling again, away and nearly out of his grasp, but Dorian won't have it.

" _Now_ ," he commands, gripping his shoulders with beautiful vehemence, rolling against him and making him hiss with every thrust of his hips, bottom lip pulled between his teeth.

He wants him. Of course he does. As fiercely as Dorian seemingly needs him. But even as his cock slides slick and smooth along his length, even as he shudders from the friction, fingers loose around his waist, he _worries_ , always, because _now_ as Dorian wishes it feels particularly... daring. He could... do this. _He can_. And Maker help him, he wants to. But like this? Without so much as... well, that is— _a preamble_?

 _He doesn't know how_.

"Don't worry about me," Dorian cups his face, noting his hesitation, and Cullen scoffs inbetween moans, a scolding glance.

"Of all the things you've ever said...," he frowns, mildly offended, but he doesn't stop moving, doesn't break the slow rhythm. "I've never... You know I've never... not with—Maker's breath, _Dorian_ , I could hurt you, you can't possibly ask me not to wor—"

"Oh, but you should worry," he clicks his tongue around a smirk, and he slips out of his hold, reaching out for the bedside table. Cullen merely watches, turning to face him, on his knees... and blanching as Dorian rolls onto his back with a flask in his hand.

"If you must," he says, matter-of-fact as he pours a generous amount of a translucent substance into his palm, "worry for yourself."

"I don't— _ahhhh_."

He shivers, trembles, leaning forward. Dorian's reached out for his length, knees pulled apart, inviting, and he strokes him, coats him, his free hand wrapped around himself.

"If you don't fuck me now, Cullen Stanton Rutherford, I'm not to be taken responsible for what I'll do to you."

Scorching warmth washes over him, and he stops being. He falls into open arms, melts, sighs, settled in Dorian's haven, and strong thighs curl around him, keeping him close, stubborn. He doesn't know much when it comes to men loving men, but he knows _this love_ , and Dorian's gentle gaze. He knows these touches, caresses along his arm, fingers around his shaft, guiding. He knows this smile, this fiery need, and now he knows this warmth, tight, and he arches above him, forehead against forehead, a breathless sigh.

Maker's—

"... _f-fuck_ ," he moans, barely audible, and he doesn't know, barely there, his entire being focused on the pressure around him, the tip of his cock, delightfully crushed.

"Come again?"

Dorian grins underneath him, and he sees him and _he doesn't_ , shaking, gritting his teeth as he's invited deeper, and it resounds in his ears, vague, a foreign word he hasn't said more than a handful of times in his entire life.

 _Fuck_. It dawns on him, distant, as he pushes in, carefully, and he withdraws and he pushes again and he notes the expectant glint in Dorian's eyes, wanting, _say that again_.

"...fuck," he tries, lower, raw, and Dorian groans, squirms, bucks up and takes him in with a sharp cry, and Cullen growls, balls deep inside him, nuzzling the side of his face.

"Mmmm, _Amatus_. Tell me more."

"Am I... hurting you?" he croaks, nibbling on his ear, and Dorian chuckles, soft, gentle, slightly throaty.

"Not quite what I had in mind, I must say. You are right where I wanted you, Cullen. I told you. You shouldn't worry about me. Just... keep doing what you're doing."

"You're purposely evading my question."

"And you're purposely wasting your breath which, should I remind you, could be put to better use. I want to hear you moan again. I fully expect you to turn into a panting mess above me, as I was before, as you'll drive me to be again. I want you to make love to me, _Amatus_. I've ached for you for months and I won't deny myself of you, of your _cock_ , any longer. Move for me. Mark me. _Yes_. That's it. That's my knight. My _Commander_. The beast that crushes me against walls and leaves me panting for more. The— _ahhhhh_."

He doesn't stop moving. He writhes above him, languid thrusts gaining in speed the deeper Dorian's moans grow, and he groans with him, sliding in and out and wondering how anything can feel this good. Dorian rolls with him, arches and pushes, and he claims he's not hurting but Cullen watches, through his daze, for any sign that would tell otherwise.

" _Qui custos es mei_ , _Amatus_ ," he mewls, hands firm around his arse, and Cullen responds with a whimper, faster, breath harsh through his nose. "Tell... me more."

"Can you... find your release l-like this?"

"Like... this?"

"From the friction of... my skin against your..."

"My...?"

"Cock. Your cock, Dorian. It's... _ahh_ , Maker's breath, I've never known anything quite as... arousing as this. Tighten your hold around me. _Use me_. Harder. You're leaking. I'm..."

" _Ahhhh_..."

He's trapped between Dorian's thighs, and he knows he's close, as he is, a panting mess as Dorian's wished him to be. He doesn't merely thrust back and forth; he rises and he falls, shifting against him, rolling, left and right and up and down, rubbing his cock with taut muscles, following his rhythm. To feel his arousal against his skin... it turns him on and he isn't sure why, but he's past caring, he's past everything, save for the hoarse and wilder notes emerging from Dorian's throat, nails digging into his arse.

"Come for me," Cullen hears himself growl, and Dorian pulls him in for a rough kiss, sweat and warmth and saliva, and he ruts, faster, moaning his name and calling for sweet mercy, and his world collapses.

He loses it before Dorian does, blood pounding in his ears, and he grunts above him, long and harsh and shuddering, mouth hanging open. He feels his breath on his skin, against his lips, and they breathe the same air and they groan the same sounds, and Cullen's arse stills as his cock twitches inside him, and he comes, hard, Dorian rocking against him and coating his skin thick and slick.

It takes a while before his pulse slows down, before his mind recovers and his body stops shaking, before his head clears and his breath comes back. There's something soft on his skin, gently running up and down his back and the sides of his body, and he recognizes Dorian's touch, gentle, tender, lazy kisses fluttered against his lips. He doesn't want to move, and yet he does, unwilling to crush his bones more than he already has, and he rolls off him, slowly, his softening cock still inside him.

"Are you hurt?" he inquires, searching for a hint of pain on his face with a caress upon his cheek, but there's nothing but sheer beatitude in Dorian's gaze and he looks so impossibly beautiful.

He smiles, slow, content, and shakes his head.

"I've rather enjoyed the feel of you," he confesses, a low confession, and he rolls his hips for good measure, only once, causing Cullen to hiss around a chuckle.

"As have I," he smiles back, and he wants to say more, _I love you_ , but he can't, because the words are stuck in his throat and he feels them in his eyes, stupidly, closing them.

He grabs his hand instead, fingers intertwined, a reflection of their legs, and he brings it to his mouth, pressing a slow, gentle kiss to the side of his thumb.

"I've never... felt like this," he cracks his eyes open, his face warmer, and he swears Dorian's grown darker again.

"For a mage?" he asks, and if he meant to sound nonchalant, Cullen knows enough, now, to recognize the veiled concern in his gaze—he quickly shakes his head to dissipate it, kissing his hand again, once, twice, before cupping his face.

"For a man. For anyone. There was... a woman, once. In another life. But it was never... it wasn't _this_. I didn't think I could feel such things. I especially didn't think I _should_."

"Do you... find yourself wishing you didn't feel these things?"

"No. Not anymore. I loathed the man I had become for so long. I think I've... finally forgiven myself. You... helped me. You helped me save what I'd thought long forgotten. You helped me remember what it was supposed to feel like to be at peace with myself, to..."

He pauses, swallows. Dorian leans in, closer, knowing, and he nuzzles him, tender, his nose and his cheek, and Cullen sighs, fingers lightly rubbing the back of his head.

"... to love," he whispers, and they hug each other, Dorian's face buried in his neck, pillars to one another.

There's a shiver shaking them both, and Cullen holds him tighter, breathing him in, curling around him.

"Well then, _Amatus_ ," Dorian snuggles up to him, voice low, leg wrapped around his waist and arm secured around his shoulder. "I'll endeavor to remind you as often as I can."

"I'm not likely to forget again," he smiles, chuckles, short and strained, gentle.

Ever.

 


End file.
